


SHOWERS & SCENTS

by thoughtsdemise



Series: Metal Shop [1]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Animal Parts on Mechs, Bubbles - Freeform, Cock-Blocking, Dominance-Submission, M/M, Masturbation, Mech/Mech, Multi, Rubbing/Humping, Sleazy Naiveté, Small Ticks of Bondage/Pain, Sticky, Threesome, Voyeurism, Warped Reality (AU), sex in weird places, tactile play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-13
Updated: 2016-05-13
Packaged: 2018-06-08 02:23:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6835159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thoughtsdemise/pseuds/thoughtsdemise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pointless self-indulgent kinky smut.  Ratchet, Drift, and Pharma!  Time to enjoy a raunchy bang.</p>
            </blockquote>





	SHOWERS & SCENTS

**Author's Note:**

> If you know the artwork, you know the inspiration behind the bunny and wolfies. This is essentially what happens when I need smut, don’t get that smut, and there are way too many bunny dealers around me for me to ignore my twitching itch. (Please note I yanked this back late last year because it needed modifications.)

Ratchet places his hands against the wash-rack wall with a heavy sigh.  Sensitive rabbit ears flick under the trickle of water.  The old bot tries not to think about all the hours he has yet to log correcting Brainstorm’s latest attempt to impress Perceptor.  “They should just pound each other against whatever surface is available already,” Ratchet sighs and cracks a grin.  “Not like I haven’t suggested it.  Percy sure knows how to play.”

The medic pushes his upper body against the wall, rubbing at the tiles. He widens his thighs and cants his hips back towards the phantom grip of black fingers from a surfacing memory file.  Ratchet rumbles his engine invitingly and lays flush against the wall.  Red fingers track down metal tiles to slide over hips.  Ratchet whimpers as he fantasizes about black fingers dipping into hip and thigh seams to set fire to the neural nodes there.  Ratchet’s own fingers only brush over his plating as he remembers Perceptor’s stern warning to never touch the wires beneath.  Even without the scientist’s physical presence, the medic obeys the master’s commands.

A red bunny tail flicks quickly into a building tension within his core.  Ratchet digs into his valve cover impatiently.  With a small huff to the answering snick, he slides his fingers inside as deeply as he can reach.  He rubs the entire length of his body against the wall to add stimulation to the thrusting fingers.  Ratchet’s engine hitches with a loud whine and  cough.  The crest of his helm digs into the wall as his free hand slaps the surface before turning into a frustrated fist.  The fantasy suddenly escapes him with a cold splash of water.  He circles around his valve trying to rebuild the charge.

Red paint streaks the metal tiles as Ratchet forces his body against them; fingers searching for that right spot.  Energon trickles from a hard bite on his bottom lip.  Water pours down the sensitive frame that writhes and arches, chasing after an overload.  Two more fingers push in next to the original two.

“Nggh.  Ah, please.”  Ratchet pleads to the empty space.  He grunts as a small wave finally crashes over him.  His spine curves backward at the quick zap that rips through his systems.

Ratchet sighs and rubs his cheek against the heated metal of the wall.  Deft fingers trail through the lubricant on his thighs.  They paint over his hips and stomach before slipping along the wall.  He pushes back into the full spray of the shower head.  The ears jerk up right at the sound of a low appreciative whistle.  Ratchet snaps his head around to level his glare with the gawker.  He chokes on his own snarl.  The ears lay flat against his helm.

“D-Drift…what are…”  His stuttering causes an amused snort from the second body leaning casually against the doorframe.  “Why is Pharma out of the brig?”  His tone is demanding.

Drift remains almost motionless but wide-eyed.  The wolf tail he was granted thanks to Brainstorm’s latest experiment waves wildly behind him.  The clink of stasis cuffs draws Ratchet’s full attention to the arrogant mech behind the third-in-command.  Pharma taps at his chin with a cocky grin at that familiar fuming look.  Wings arch then settle in a silent invitation to touch.

“So the teacher still enjoys the public wash-rack.”

Ratchet focuses on the fuzzy image of Drift and Pharma on the tiles.  His optics track the sway of blue hips as the flyer struts forward.  The clink of a chain leash has Pharma turning around to raise a brow at his keeper.  Wolf ears flick and perk in interest at the rumbled threat and wide stance.  The Delphi transplant smiles sweetly and dips his head submissively as he turns his regard back to Ratchet.  He notes the nice amount of lather slipping over red plating.

“Right then, Keeper!  Let’s get clean, shall we?”

Drift strides forward to place a firm hand on Pharma’s shoulder to guide him to a stall as far from Ratchet as possible.  Pharma slips away, already ahead of Drift and makes himself at home under a sprayer next to Ratchet’s.  The white mech pulls the leash taught to tug the medic over at least one stall, but the flyer would not be moved.  He traps his hands and arms against the wall.  He levels a challenging look at his keeper.  Both mechs knew that Drift wasn’t allowed to hurt his captive unless he posed a genuine threat to anyone on board the Lost Light.  With a lip curled in a silent snarl, Drift backs away and lets Pharma have his way; his first real mistake of the evening aside from volunteering to take the captive to the wash-rack and not checking to make sure it was empty.

“He makes a tempting sight, doesn’t he?”  Pharma asks trying to start something.  His pleased smile at both mechs’ reactions is telling enough.  “So have you fragged each other through multiple surfaces yet?”

Drift gawks at the Delphi medic, and Ratchet spits out the water he had sucked into his vents.  Pharma rubs soap along his chest, working up a bubbly lather that clung to his semi-dry frame.

“No?”

Ratchet is quick to recover and turns away from Pharma’s baiting.  A whistle has the red medic snapping back up from where he had leaned over to retrieve the cleaner bottle.  He turns around to chuck the bottle but finds the issue had already been handled.

Drift thrusts Pharma against the wall with enough force to crack his plating.  The chain leash is wrapped tightly around the medic’s neck.  Pointed ears are laid back as the swordsman snarls.  He presses in close to Pharma to make certain the full threat contained in the rumble of his engine is felt.  Drift’s helm snaps to the side as a bottle impacts it.  He looks affronted at Ratchet.

“He’s just trying to get a rise out of you, Drift.”

“Ratchet,” Drift vents softly.  He loosens his iron grip but maintains a hard enough press to keep Pharma pinned to the wall.

“Mm, yes.”  Pharma’s tail slips against Drift’s inner thigh in a slow wag, a coy smile and wink at a startled Ratchet.  “A rise would be very nice right now.  And,” the brush of a tail tip against a heating valve cover as a glossa flicks over lips, “a nice drenching.”

Ratchet hunches his shoulders at the pleased rev from his engine.  The snick of a cover sliding aside is louder than laser fire even over the sounds of three sets of fans and the pounding of water.  Pharma graces Ratchet with a fond smile.

“Teacher does like, but does Keeper.  No?”  Pharma pouts as Drift draws away from his frame and tail, dropping the hold on the chain.  Drift emits a deep rolling protest from his high speed engine.  Pharma turns to the retreating mech.

“Pharma!  Ah.”

Ratchet looks at the light stinging line across his chest.  His optics flicker up at the Delphi medic who plays with the loose chain.  Pharma clicks a negative at him with a tilt of his head held in challenge.  He runs several links pass thin fingers before raising the impromptu whip in a silent command.

“Teacher must wait,” Pharma lowers the register of his voice and watches as Ratchet shivers at the effect, ears perking to catch all the tone differences and flows.   He turns back to Drift with a charming smile.  A bubbly film coats his fingers as he rubs along his own chest in his approach of the reluctant third-in-command.  He moves his wings in small arches to draw Drift’s attention.

Pharma rests cuffed wrists against a white chest that vibrates with the growl of an irate engine.  The slip of lubricant against warming platelets has even the reluctant Drift relaxing into the delicate touch of blue fingers.  The 3IC jumps a bit in a muted surprise when the clank of knees hitting the shower deck reach his audios; it was almost as surprising as the bound arms that have tucked themselves up between his thighs.  Pharma strokes along a curved aft with a pleased smile.

“My, my.  Someone was built just right.”  He glances back at Ratchet.  “Now I wonder who helped in shaping it?”  Pharma flicks his glossa over abdominal plating.  He traces each groove over Drift’s interfacing cover, teasing at the edges with just a barbed tip as he activates his internal energy coils deep inside his chest.  He kisses the still closed panel with an open mouth, still licking.  Oral lubricants act as a conductive substance and a small lace of energy traces up Pharma’s throat and exists over his tongue.

Pharma pulls away slightly with a very self-satisfied grin at the garbled bit of static that is ripped from Drift’s vocalizer.  The medic tilts his head to the side to avoid the involuntary thrusting stab Drift makes for his mouth.  To distract the third in command from grabbing his helm and forcing him to engulf the length, Pharma buries his denta and glossa in the exposed cables at Drift’s hips.  He still strokes along the aft’s curve as he bites and licks the cables and struts, moving with the sway of those hips.  He unfurls his EM field to brush against Ratchet’s, enjoying the lust he finds there far more than the squirming soldier under his fingers.

The Delphi medic finally gives into the instant tugs on his helms and licks the underside of Drift’s straining cord.  Pharma’s tail thumps against his feet and legs as he teases the other mech without actually giving in to any demands.  After all providing a warm nesting receptacle for the sparking spike wasn’t his job.  Ramping up the charge, Pharma places another open mouthed kiss snug to the base of the erection.  He forces the thrusting hips against his held and holds Drift in place while he administers another ramped up pulse.

The choked off cry of a static warble and deep engine thrum almost drowns out Ratchet’s thundering cooling fans.  Black fingers grasp desperately at a red helm and yellow turbine.  Pharma allows Drift to ride out his overload until the spurt of transfluid ebbs. He then pulls back to look up into fuzzed optics that regard him a mixture of emotions that are not all pleasant.  The medic finally engulfs the very tip of Drift’s cable, sucking a small dribble from it.  He grins smugly at the laxness that has taken over the white frame before he pulls his bound arms down and away from being any kind of support.

Drawing his hands into his lap, Pharma watches with cruel satisfaction as Drift teeters and then falls backward, frame still jerking with small aftershocks of a quickly forced overload.  The flyer turns around to the other medic whose fans still whirl wildly.  He spits the trickle of transfluid out and swipes a thumb over the remaining droplet that clings to his lips.  Pharma smiles wolfishly at Ratchet as his ears move forward and his tail lifts in a pleased wave at seeing the older mech back away a step with a small shake running over his plating, a prey’s instinctual response to a stalking predator. 

Pharma calmly stands and tugs the chain leash from beneath the fallen warrior.  He draws each link through caressing fingers, backing Ratchet up with each step he takes forward.  The Delphi medic pauses in his pursuit of the suddenly shy bunny to drape the chain about his shoulder air vents.  He rumbles in pleasure as the links clink and lightly scrape at his wings and down his turbine. 

“Now that Keeper is somewhat satisfied,” Pharma pauses to regard Drift with a sniff.  “Perhaps Teacher will—indulge me?” 

With each word, the wolf moved closer to the rabbit.  A single step more forward and blue fingers rest against a glass chest, playing with the Autobot symbol there before stroking upward to pick at the lines of Ratchet’s jaw.  Pharma wraps his cuffed wrists about Ratchet’s neck and lays his cheek against a red helm.  Hitching his knees low, Pharma uses the drying solvents on his chest to rub against Ratchet.  The older mech huffs and grips blue hips.  Rabbit ears lower into a relaxed hang and twitch against bound arms, sending a pleasant prickle through white plating.

Ratchet gives in to the insistent coaxing and lowers himself to the ground.  Pharma follows him down, leaning over the splayed form.  He continues to rub against the other medic even as his own interfacing covers slide aside.  Pharma draws his arms back over Ratchet’s head to lay his elbows against the expansive chest.  His spike slips through the lubricant coating Ratchet’s pelvic housing from the older medic’s earlier masturbation attempt.  Pharma dips his spike halfway into the moist valve and thrusts lightly, letting his own engines flare and twist.  Before Ratchet’s hips can begin an answering rhythm, Pharma pulls out and moves swiftly up the red frame.

Barred from the use of his hands, Pharma’s elbows jab into Ratchet’s chest for balance as he uses his longer legs to make a wider stance to fetch up Ratchet’s knees.  The flyer grunts with effort as he moves his body along the red frame.  The rim of Pharma’s valve teases along Ratchet’s cord.  Earning a few garbled curses from the older medic, the jet enjoys the teasing prickling as he maneuvers their bodies awkwardly into position.  A satisfied whirr of a flight engine stills any further struggle from the grounder.

Ratchet ex-vents heavily several times before chuckling at the cocky lilt of Pharma’s lips.  “Always did like to be in charge even if you didn’t know what the hell you were doing.”

Pharma rocks his frame, and Ratchet answers with a similar motion.  The nodes in his valve spark and tingle with each brush over the erection.  Blue hands lay flat against a glass chest as the flyer arches backward to enjoy the mingle of pain and pleasure that grace his mentor’s features from each shift of their frames.

“Is there any other way to be?”

“Yes,” a low dangerous voice fills the space between the impacting ring of metal and the slurp of fluids.  “My sword through your spark.”

Pharma looks over his shoulder with a snorting laugh.  “Well, I’ll be…rah!…slagged.”  Pharma grunts with each hard rock of his hips.  “Keeper isn’t down for the count!”

“You’ve had your shower.  Time to go back to the brig.”

The barked order is ignored as Pharma presses Ratchet further into the floor and circles his hips.  He bends the older medic in half as he cants Ratchet’s spread legs up.  A tail lifts and lies against a straining spine and turbine to reveal a cycling empty valve.”

“Or…haaah, nnrrg…you c—could join in the—ah, frag me!—ride!”

Ratchet’s emits a sharp cry as Pharma digs into the seams of his chest with needles he had extended from his fingers. 

“Dammit.”  He grips at Pharma’s stilled hips, trying to move them.  His optics alight on Drift’s looming form before his helm smacks back against the floor with a dull thunk.  He strains and shifts, and makes a forced arc to move as much as he is able to, despite the pain to his spinal strut; the building and interrupted charge snapping viciously through his systems.

Drift grabs Pharma tightly around the waist with a pleased roll from his engine.  His spike grates lightly against the lubricant on Ratchet’s thighs and pelvic array.  The heat from his cycling valve is like a siren’s call to the straining length.  Drift huffs as his eyes meet with Ratchet’s a moment before he lifts Pharma up and away, violently tossing him into a wall.  His own white tail bristles at the outraged snarl from the flyer.

But the instinct to take and dominate was hounding through his fucked up systems thanks to Brainstorm’s latest catastrophe.  Black fingers clamp onto red wrists and pull them tight against red hips that move against the shower floor urgently.  Drift slams home without any further preparation to Ratchet’s valve.  Deep nodes spark and fire in a quick release in response to the invasion.  Ratchet sags against the pooling water on the floor.  He can offer not even a token protest as Drift hefts his knees up and apart to allow for full penetration.

The third in command moves with a contained brutality, seeking his own overload and a second for the medic as well.  Drift retains an unyielding grip on red hands as his shoulders catch Ratchet’s knees to keep the medic splayed open.  He is so focused on the frame beneath him.  He barely registers the touch of hand against his own and Ratchet’s.

He growls in warning to the smirking face that nuzzles at the bouncing red hip before placing an opened mouth kiss there.  Blue fingers pet over joined red and black slowly despite the pace being set by swinging hips.  A flight engine lights up in a delighted reverberation.  Pharma licks Ratchet’s hip one last time before kissing Drift’s forearm submissively.  He licks at an elbow joint before sucking a wire into his mouth.  He smiles coyly at the choked grunt from the swordsman.

Still sporting the stasis cuffs and chain leash, Pharma uses this to his own advantage and lets it travel over the moving frames earning a pleading warble for “more” and “primus, don’t stop” and “fuck me harder”.  It was the gasped “fill me up” that finally sparked Pharma into pulling away from Ratchet’s hip and Drift’s arm.  He moves to Ratchet’s helm.

“Filled up full,” he agrees readily with the moaning Ratchet beneath his spread legs.

Lubricant dribbles from Pharma’s spike to Ratchet’s chin.  He traces the gasping mouth with three fingers before pushing them in.  The Delphi transplant hunches over as a glossa rolls over his fingertips and knuckles.  Pharma leans down to lick at his free hand in time with Ratchet’s glossa, and the older mech tugs uselessly to raise his own hands.  The medics hum with a building energy before Pharma pulls his fingers out with a slick pop.  His cord pushes roughly in to replace the fingers.

The tip catches on Ratchet’s intake tubing, and he chokes.  He tilts his helm to loosen his neck cabling enough to allow the cord full access to his throat.  He smiles for a moment around the intrusion at the high pitched flight engine that warbles in pleasure.  He quickly becomes lost as he is barbequed and pounded into a pleading, choked moldable pile of metal.  The satisfying release from his quick masturbation attempt earlier final zings through his systems even as he feels transfluid scorching both filled orifices.  His systems shake and settle into a pleased glow.

Drift cycles his systems trying to stay functional.  He releases Ratchet’s wrists and winces at the dents filled with black paint transfers.  He mumbles a static apology.  He shifts his touch lightly over pinging plating, rolling smoothly through the clinging bubbles of solvent.  His vents hitch with displeasure as he runs into a blue hand that should not be there.

Pharma pants and grins shamelessly at the glaring mech.  He has to reset his vocalizer five times before he’s able to rasp a barbed tease out which makes Drift tense and narrow his optics.  Pharma sits back on his heels and sticks out his chest proudly.

“What?  Don’t fancy another go, Keeper?”

Pharma cackles even as Drift lunges for him.  Both frames impact the wall with a ringing sting.  Both flyer and grounder pant trying to intake cool air over scorched systems.  Ratchet shifts limply on the floor at the display before rolling over to his stomach and settling back down with a long sigh.  A buzzed cough draws two pairs of optics toward the entrance.  Perceptor’s raised optic ridges make both the medic and the swordsman pause.

Perceptor’s own rabbit ears lay relaxed along his helm as he looks over the scene before him with an eye for the details.  He ignores the beginning twitches in Drift’s plating at his continued silent gaze.  The third in command clears his vents and straightens full.  He pulls Pharma with him under a nearby showerhead.  He makes quick work of any sticky residue or paint transfers under a cold spray despite the Delphi medic’s loud protests.  Drift leaves, half dragging the protesting Pharma out in a headlock, without saying anything to Perceptor.  His blue gaze does flick to a now kneeling Ratchet for a moment before the keeper and the captive proceed out the door and down the hall.

Ratchet looks up into a smiling face as Perceptor offers him a hand up.  He purrs quietly as he is tucked into a thick chest before being lead under a gentle spray and settled against the wall.  His pleased sighs are followed by the slow brush of black hands over dirtied plating.  Nothing meant to entice or excite but still a light charge rises at that whisper touch.

Perceptor finally chuckles.  “No, Ratchet.”  He continues the cleansing motions over Ratchet’s frame and his own.  The scientist pauses at a whine from the medic.  He picks up one of Ratchet’s dented wrists and moves his lips over each finger dent before settling red fingers against his ears.  Ratchet obliges the silent command for pets as Perceptor indulges Ratchet and runs black fingers over red ears ever so gently.

“That Drift and Pharma,” he pauses and leans into a good scratch, “have a lot to learn.”  He tickles the inside of Ratchet’s ear before cupping the medic’s face.  “They certainly put on a good show but know nothing else, do they?  I shall have to change that with some proper training.”

Perceptor and Ratchet rub against each other.  The denial of a slowly rising charge too much for their own sensitized systems to ignore.  The last traces of blue-green fade from Perceptor’s frame as the last traces of blue and white fade from Ratchet’s.  The medic arches against Perceptor and gives into a small overload that dances over his circuits.  Perceptor is soon to follow the medic.

“Mmm,” is the pleased rumble from the sniper for a moment before he leans into the medic.  He nuzzles the red helm with a pleased buzz to his EM field.  “Alright, Ratchet.”  He chortles at the softly chirring mech.  “An hour or two of rest and then,” he lowers the timber of his voice to a whisper.  “And then I’m going to see how many overloads I can wring out of your frame and spark.”


End file.
